Oh, ever thus, from childhood's hour, I 've seen my fondest hopes decay; I never loved a tree or flower But 't was the first to fade away. I never nurs'd a dear gazelle, To glad me with its soft black eye, But when it came to know me well And love me, it was sure to die.
Man, while he loves, is never quite depraved.
Do not fold, spindle or mutilate.
Judge not man by his outward manifestation of faith; for some there are who tremblingly reach out shaking hands to the guidance of faith; others who stoutly venture in the dark their human confidence, their leader, which they mistake for faith; some whose hope totters upon crutches; others who stalk into futurity upon stilts. The difference is chiefly constitutional with them.
Damn the age. I'll write for antiquity.
Alas! how light a cause may move Dissension between hearts that love! Hearts that the world in vain had tried, And sorrow but more closely tied; That stood the storm when waves were rough, Yet in a sunny hour fall off, Like ships that have gone down at sea When heaven was all tranquillity.
The trumpet does not more stun you by its loudness, than a whisper teases you by its provoking inaudibility.
If thou would'st have me sing and play As once I play'd and sung, First take this time-worn lute away, And bring one freshly strung.
A book reads the better which is our own, and has been so long known to us, that we know the topography of its blots, and dog's ears, and can trace the dirt in it to having read it at tea with buttered muffins.
Don't introduce me to that man! I want to go on hating him, and I can't hate a man whom I know.
He has left off reading altogether, to the great improvement of his originality.
Our appetites, of one or another kind, are excellent spurs to our reason, which might otherwise but feebly set about the great ends of preserving and continuing the species.
How convalescence shrinks a man back to his pristine stature! where is now the space, which he occupied so lately, in his own, in the family's eye?
Rags, which are the reproach of poverty, are the beggar's robes, and graceful insignia of his profession, his tenure, his full dress, the suit in which he is expected to show himself in public.
We are nothing; less than nothing, and dreams. We are only what might have been, and must wait upon the tedious shores of Lethe millions of ages before we have existence, and a name.
The true poet dreams being awake.
I own that I am disposed to say grace upon twenty other occasions in the course of the day besides my dinner. I want a form for setting out upon a pleasant walk, for a moonlight ramble, for a friendly meeting, or a solved problem. Why have we none for books, these spiritual repasts-a grace before Milton-a grace before Shakespeare-a devotional exercise proper to be said before reading The Fairie Queene?
To be sick is to enjoy monarchical prerogatives.
The only true time which a man can properly call his own, is that which he has all to himself; the rest, though in some sense he may be said to live it, is other people's time, not his.
When thus the heart is in a vein Of tender thought, the simplest strain Can touch it with peculiar power.
I have done all that I came into this world to do. I have worked task work, and have the rest of the day to myself.
Newspapers always excite curiosity. No one ever puts one down without the feeling of disappointment.
There are like to be short graces where the devil plays host.
Shall I ask the brave soldier who fights by my side In the cause of mankind, if our creeds agree?
A garden was the primitive prison, till man with Promethean felicity and boldness, luckily sinned himself out of it.
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